User blog:DubiousPeddler/Ballad of the Damned
Greed, in the end, fails even the greedy... ~18th of Sun's Height, 4E 203 It gasped for air, struggling pitifully to break free from its watery tomb and piece together the pieces of its broken body. It shifted and squirmed, then gasped for air once more. Despite its attempts, they were all ultimately pointless. It could not breath, for its lungs were gone. Realizing the futility of its struggle, it slowly died down once more into its eternal slumber. It was still awake, deep inside, as it had always been. It felt as if Masser and Secunda had redefined darkness; burying the light and unsettling long dead memories, long dead corpses, and long dead sins. A man dressed in the garbs of a sailor stared into the abyss, the abyss staring directly back. He winced as he saw its struggle. This was his fault, the emptiness was his to blame. He could not take back what he had done... Or what had been done to him. Tendrils shot out of the darkness and seized the man. The sailor's clothes began to tear; his entire body violently rended until skin tore itself from flesh, and flesh tore itself from bone. By the time they had receded, the sailor was a mess. His skin was a pale grey, flesh rotting and peeling from his body. His spinal ridge protruded from his back, looking as if it would tear through his thin layer of translucent skin. The most disturbing thing about him, however, were his eyes. Despite his transformation, his eyes remained the same. Human, pleading eyes; scared and confused. The broken man wished to weep in sorrow, but his time for sorrow had passed many decades ago. He stood at the mouth of the abyss, frantically scratching at his flaking skin for what seemed like hours, until, he suddenly stopped. The thin man slowly looked up, staring directly in front of him. One of his bony arms slowly rose, the wrist still limp, until it was completely horizontal. His index finger straightened and he mouthed words silently. Suddenly, his mouth opened to an impossible size, as if his jaw had been dislodged, and he let out a horrible scream. Reyland woke with a start, suddenly shooting out of his hammock and finding himself in a cold sweat. With widened eyes and a growing look of concern, the Imperial set his feet onto the deck whilst taking shallow breaths, barely able to hear himself think over the sporadic pounding of his heart. Reyland had his fair share of nightmares; hell he probably had more than the average man. But this one? This one felt so vivid, so real. Gripping his throbbing forehead tightly, the Imperial decided to slip on his boots and get some air. He could've sworn the figure above the abyss had looked him in the eyes. He pointed at him and screamed. Reyland wearily climbed the steps up onto the deck of The Concord. It was a former merchant ship, just recently returning to Daggerfall after a raid off the coast of Anvil had concluded. It was a large ship, fully-rigged and armed with cannons to fight off the surprising number of privateers who called the Abecean Sea home. They were scheduled to return about a week ago, but the captain veered them more West than they would've hoped; chasing after recent rumours of the presence of an Elder Scroll. Reyland wasn't pleased with that one bit, as it was the captain's greed that delayed his arrival home. The sky itself seemed as if it was ironic insult to Reyland's anxiety; a deep blue only partially speckled with wisps of white. The sun had nearly set, painting the horizon a technicolour mesh of orange, and reflecting itself within the dark blue ocean. Reyland still wasn't at ease, however, as despite the beautiful sky, he could see the dark clouds gathering in the distance. Leaning over the ship's railing, the Imperial retched over the water, causing one of the other sailors to take notice. "Oi, Reyland!" He cried over the low rumble of waves. "You a'right o'er there?" Mackleon Pwyll had been sailing with Reyland for as long as the boy could remember, and was likely a crew member of The Concord well before that. The old Reachman had always treated him right, showing constant concern for his well-being and almost seeing him as a son. Probably since Mackleon's real son had died before his 7th birthday. "Everything's fine, Mac." Reyland lied, stumbling back slightly and nearly falling over. Mackleon let go of the rope he'd been holding down and ran over to Reyland, causing the sailor next to him to swear as he caught onto it. "Lad, I ain't jus' gonna sit idly by while you throw yeself o'erboard." He said, allowing the Imperial to grab onto him for support. "Ye's gotta be off yer rocker to say e'rythin's fine." "I'm fine, Mac." Reyland said once more with force, almost sounding defensive this time. The Reachman frowned and let out a sigh. "Whatev'r ye say, boss. Jus' take care of yeself, a'right?" The Imperial's eyes were fluttering, and he was unable to give the Reachman a response. Milky white eyes stared off towards the small storm brewing not too far from the ship, and his mouth hung partially open. Growing concerned and concluding that Reyland was not at all okay, Mackleon gently slapped at the Imperial's cheeks to try and elicit some sort of response. "Reylan'? Come on Reyland, wake up..." He began to shake him more forcefully in a panic, and called out to the other crew members. Reyland's hearing became distorted and his vision blurred; unable to make out the myriad of voices and faces before him. It was the last thing he remembered before falling unconscious. ________________________________________ The sky was aflame. A constantly flickering mass of bright orange and red that seemed to come closer, and closer the more you stared at it. A single cloud of smoke swirled overhead of a ship, as if it was a storm cloud. A ship made entirely of rotting wood was adorned with bones and collective masses of what appeared to be fingernails and teeth. It bore a torn flag that seemed to change everytime it flapped in the searing wind; almost as if it was depicting a twisted slideshow of death and carnage. The vessel of war floated upon a calm sea of blood, so thick you couldn't see an inch deep into it. Just endless red. Upon closer inspection of the ship, it was revealed that it was captained by a crew of shuffling pale grey humanoids. And yet, there seemed to be nothing human about them. They dragged a variety of twisted weaponry that looked more like torture-devices than anything. One held a barbed billhook over his shoulder, seeming to not care nor notice that its prongs were stuck in its flesh. Another hauled around a long chain with the blade of a scythe at its head. The crew of ghouls lashed at bare men who were crucified against the mast at all sides; too weak to even let out a wail of pain. The bow of the ship was piled high with visibly decaying corpses, the bones looking as if all of the meat on them had been gnawed off. Everything they ate turned to ash in their mouth, but it didn't stop the ghouls from trying. Almost as if on instinct, every living crewmember began to wail. A terrible, horrible symphony of wails and moans that steadily grew into a deafening crescendo. Once more, Reyland shot awake. Mackleon and a few other crew members' eyes widened in shock. They'd been hovering over him, Mackleon holding a cloth that looked to be damp with sweat. The sailors grinned in response to the Imperial waking up, some sighing in relief, and others laughing in joy. Reyland was the youngest crew member, and they'd all grown rather attached to the boy. He groggily looked around rubbed his eyes. "What-- what happened?" He said, nonplussed. "How long was I asleep?" Mackleon looked to him grimly, knitting his eyebrows together in worry. "Four hours, lad. You's was sleepin' for four 'ole hours. The doc don' even know what 'appened to ye." He stated, solemn. "We's was worried, so we all--" "Four hours?!" Reyland exclaimed, cutting him off. The Imperial struggled to escape the linen confines of his hammock, prompting a few of the sailors to try and gently hold him back. "Easy now, you need your rest." One of them said cooly. The boy slapped their hands away from him, and shifted to the side, capsizing the hammock and causing him to fall directly onto the oak floorboards. Wasting no time, he scrambled to his feet and parted the crowd that had assembled. "Where the devil are you goin', Reyland?" Mackleon called after him as he made his way behind him. Just as Reyland had predicted, the storm had come closer than it had ever been. Directly under the violent, swirling cloud was the same ship from Reyland's dreams. A massive monstrosity built of tooth, nail, and bone which bore a horrific torn banner; crewed by a company of emaciated grey ghouls. Reyland's breathing became violent, and his heart raced. His mind was filled with so many questions that it currently was not in the state to answer. "Turn the ship, turn the ship!" The boy cried towards the captain, who simply stood frozen in fear. The masts of the ship were wide open, and the wind was strong. Yet, the ship wasn't moving whatsoever. It seemed almost as though some supernatural force was holding them in place. All the crew of the Concord could do was simply wait in stunned, terrifying silence as the other ship approached. They'd all heard rumours of the Damned. Every sailor worth his salt knew about the Damned. But to think that they really, truly existed was out of the question for many of them. The crew of the Concord was no exception. Stories of ships drifting through the sea, its crew either missing or victims of brutal mutilation were commonplace in the Abecean. Stories of a ship which carried a storm above it everywhere it went, a ship which commanded the ocean like its pet. And it obeyed. Stories of a ship made of the dead, crewed by the dead, and left dead in its wake. These were the stories everyone knew, but few believed. A few moments felt like millennia while the ship closed in. Many sailors stood petrified, while others stood in brave defiance of the abomination. Mackleon was one of them. The Reachman was more scared than he'd ever been in his entire life, but Reyland knew he wouldn't show his fear no matter what. Mac always said that when a man's afraid, is when he must be his bravest. "Reyland," The old sailor said cooly. "I want you to take whatev'r weapon ye can fin', head down to the cabin, and hide. Don' come out 'til your certain that its safe." The way he spoke so calmly, so methodically were a true testament to the courage his character represented. "I can't do that, Mac. You know that." Before the Reachman could protest, the enemy ship pulled up directly against the Concord. A ghoul stepped on board, revealing its horrible visage. It's grey flesh was decaying, with skin peeling off it and sinew holding it together. His entire left cheek was gone, revealing black teeth and rotting gums. It swung it's chained scythe with ease despite the gaunt of its arm, and slowly stepped onto the ship. There was a deafening silence which was only perpetuated by the terrified whimpers of a member of the crew. Giving a guttural call, it swung its hook towards a sailor, the scythehead fully penetrating his calve and eliciting a panicked scream of agony. The sailor lost his balance almost immediately, falling flat on his back and grasping at his leg futily. The ghoul pulled on the chain, dragging its victim towards him. A trail of blood smeared itself onto the damp boards, accompanied by the sickening sound of sinew being tugged at with a cold blade. The others watched in horror as the ghoul looked down at the whimpering sailor at his feet, turning his head curiously before stomping his throat into itself. The man let out a final choke which was mostly drowned out by the crunch of esophagus and trachea; gurgling on his own blood before the end. Unsatisfied with the damage dealt, the ghoul stomped repeatedly onto his neck until it was nothing more than a bloody pulp. "Reyland, go!" Mackleon yelled one last time before sprinting at the ghoul while its weapon was still stuck in his victim. Before his sabre could make contact, another ghoul swung itself onto the ship, swiping at the Reachman's leg with a weapon reminiscent of an oversized cleaver. Acting fast, his eyes darted towards the new enemy, and he attempted to parry the blow to no avail. The ghoul was deceptively strong, breaking his hold and burying its cleaver halfway through his thigh. Mackleon let out a cry of pain and tried a last-ditch swipe at his assailant's throat while he was vulnerable. The sabre stuck itself in the ghoul's neck... And rested there. The monster didn't react in the slightest, simply tugging its cleaver out of Mackleon's leg and swinging its blade to the Reachman's head with both arms. The old sailor's head was severed and sent into the air, artfully trailing a stream of blood through its base as it twirled towards the ground. His head and body hit the ground in unison. Reyland's throat felt as if it had closed, and his eyes watered. Hyperventilating heavily in shock and disbelief over his best friend's death before his eyes, the Imperial decided that he had to honour Mac's dying wishes and scrambled below deck. Reyland could hear carnage and violence above him, but covered his ears and hid in a closet, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was too young to fight; weak of will, weak of spirit, and just generally weak. Mackleon was the most seasoned man he'd ever met, and he couldn't lay a scratch on the ghouls. What could Reyland do but hide? He came to the shocking realization that even if he did survive, he wouldn't be able to pilot the ship home. He desperately wanted to see his family again, his home in Daggerfall, his girlfriend Claudette; the memories were all he held onto to hide, the only things that gave him the will to live. Mere minutes later, silence struck. All Reyland could hear was his violent, irregular breathing and the rhythmic pounding of his heart. Soft creaking of the steps to the hold made Reyland more alert than ever. Chains clattered against each other. Clink. Clank. Clink. Clank. Reyland swallowed and took deep breaths to calm himself. More memories came flooding back: Drinking at the Powder-Keg in Daggerfall, running through the Bronze District with Claudette in Camlorn, listening to Mackleon's largely exaggerated anecdotes... He prayed to the divines to spare him, all the while cursing the captain for taking this detour in search of the scroll. The creaking of wooden planks steadily came closer and closer to the closet. Reyland closed his eyes and held his breath, preparing himself for what was to come. Nothing. There was dead silence for a moment, and then the creaking continued once more, going steadily farther away... Was this it? Had Reyland truly been spared his fate? He opened the door very delicately, ever so slightly… Only to see a pale blue eye staring back at him through the crack. The ghoul pulled the closet’s doors off of their hinges, and dragged Reyland out of his place, while he thrashed and cried violently. It threw the young Imperial to the ground beneath it, and hacked at his face with a small hand axe vehemently over, and over, and over again. By the time it was done, Reyland was no longer recognizable. His corpse was covered in deep gashes, disfigured and marred. Stepping away from the bloody corpse behind it, the ghoul made its way back to the deck. The Damned had claimed yet another victim. Category:Blog posts Category:Dead Sin